“I know, Mama, but—”
Her mother went on quickly and Melissa stopped. “Now, Nathan and Lydia are going too. After all your father did to help Nathan run his farm last summer while he was in Colesville, he feels a little betrayed. And this time there is no question that Joseph is directly responsible for it.”
Melissa’s breath exploded in a burst of frustration. “I know that, Mama, but it is Nathan’s farm. He and Lydia are married now. Papa can’t be telling them what to do for the rest of their lives.”
Mary Ann nodded sadly. “That’s part of what’s hurtin’ him inside.”
Melissa felt a sense of hopelessness sweep over her. “Mama, these last few weeks...I...” She shook her head, fighting back the tears.
“What, Melissa?”
“Mama, I’ve got to go,” she whispered. “I’ve felt it so strongly lately. The Spirit is whispering to me that there’s something waiting for me in Ohio.”
For a long moment Mary Ann looked at her oldest daughter, and her eyes filled with affection and love. Melissa was not the Steed’s first daughter. There had been Mary, born before Joshua and dead within an hour of her birth. When Melissa was born the cord had been wrapped twice around her neck. She was black from head to toe. Even now the feeling of terror came back to her. Was she to lose her second daughter as well?
Moving with the swiftness of experience, the midwife slashed the cord, unwound it from around Melissa’s neck, then grabbed her by the heels and held her upside down. She slapped her across the buttocks, then again, the crack of her palm sharp and hard. “Breathe, baby, breathe!” Mary Ann cried from her bed. Then there was a soft gasp, followed instantly by a howling cry. It was just as though someone were pouring life into Melissa’s body. A healthy red glow started from her chest; then, moving rapidly, spread upwards and downwards through her body, banishing the blackness.
For as long as she had life, Mary Ann would never forget the feelings she had as she then took the squalling baby in her arms. She could still picture Melissa’s face, as clearly as though all this had happened just yesterday. She was furious at being so badly treated. The tiny fists were clenched; her face was screwed up in protest as she howled and howled and howled. Never had anything sounded so absolutely wonderful. Now her face carried a different kind of pain, and it cut deeply into Mary Ann’s heart.
“I could go with Nathan and Lydia—,” Melissa started, but Mary Ann shook her head. “Why, Mama?”
“You know Papa will never agree to that. They have no idea how they are going to get there or where they will be living once they arrive. They could be living in a tent. You’re still single and—”
“Don’t you think I know that!” It was flung out in desperation. “Mama, I’m almost twenty years old now. I’m old enough to do this.”
“I know you are,” Mary Ann said wearily, “and you know you are.”
“But Papa won’t accept it,” Melissa finished for her.
“Melissa, Melissa.” How could she make her understand? “Joshua is gone. Now Nathan and Lydia are leaving. If you go too, it will break his heart.”
“Papa doesn’t have a heart.”
“Melissa Mary!”
She was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, Mama. I love Papa. You know I do. But I’m so tired of being treated like a child. He treats me like he does Rebecca.”
Mary Ann started to deny that, then just shook her head. “Melissa, can you be patient in this? I know you’re anxious, but this is not the time to fight for it. It will be another month or so before everyone starts to leave. Maybe something will—”
“Joseph and Emma have already gone,” Melissa said curtly. “They left two days ago with Brother Rigdon and Brother Partridge.”
“I know, I know. But they had a sleigh and a horse. Everyone else is going to have to wait for the canal to open again. There’s time.”
Melissa stared at her mother for several seconds, then stood up slowly. “Is there, Mama?”
“Yes, there is. Be patient. Don’t give up hope.”
“All right, Mama,” she said woodenly.
“Joshua?”
He looked up from the books, quill pen poised.
“Do you believe in angels?”
He grunted in disgust. “Of course not.”
“Hmm.” The book that had lowered slightly came up again, and in a moment Jessie was engrossed once more. For several minutes the only sound was the howling of the wind and the chatter of snow pellets against the window. It was the last day of January, and it was obvious that the winter of 1830-31—which had been a long, hard one—was still not ready to relinquish its hold on the Great Plains.
Joshua picked up another sheaf of freight bills and began to enter the figures in the ledger. After a moment he stopped and gave his wife a strange look. “What makes you ask a fool question like that?”
She didn’t look up. “What?” she murmured.
He just glared at her.
Her eyes finally raised and looked at him over the top of the book. “What?” she repeated, this time paying attention.
“Why’d you ask that?”
“Why’d I ask what?”
“About the angels.”
“Oh.” She shrugged. “I heard some missionaries in town talking about it. They were saying God still speaks to men today and that sometimes he does it through angels.”
He humphed again, making his feelings clearly known, and went back to his figuring. Immediately Jessica went back to her reading.
Five minutes later Joshua finished. He wiped off the tip of the quill, capped the bottle of ink, and closed the book. He sat there for a moment, watching Jessie. It irritated him that she could get so totally caught up in her reading that she blocked things out around her. “What missionaries?” he said abruptly.
“Hmm?”
“Jessie!” It came out sharply.
It startled her, and the book clapped shut. “What?”
“What missionaries? I don’t know about no missionaries in town.”
“Oh, there was some who came in from back East just after the first of the year.” She nodded, remembering. “In fact, it was after you left to take that shipment of salt pork to St. Louis. Supposedly they’re going out to teach the Indians, but they’ve been preaching some to the whites too.”
“What are you doin’ listenin’ to missionaries?”
She looked away quickly. “I was just passin’ in the street. I only stopped for a minute. I was curious.”
“And do you believe in angels?”
She overlooked his sarcastic sneer. “Hadn’t really thought much about it till today.”
“Well?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I do. But I don’t think they go around appearin’ to people.”
“That’s good. Neither do I.” Abruptly he stood up, the subject closed in his mind. “It’s time for bed.”
She glanced down at her book. “I’ll be right there.”
“Jessie, I said it’s time for bed.”
She sighed and put the book aside, not meeting his eyes.
As she moved to the lamp and picked it up, he watched her. The light caught her profile and showed the flatness of her stomach. He hesitated, not wanting to bring it up but not able to leave it alone. “You sure you won’t consider seeing Doctor Hathaway again?”
She stiffened. “That subject is closed, Joshua. I told you that.”
“Jessie, you can’t give up. Not yet.”
“I said that subject is closed.” She strode away from him into the bedroom, not waiting for him to follow. By the time Joshua had gone around to pull the shutters tight and secure the front door and finally came in the bedroom, she had already slipped into her night dress and was sitting on the chair waiting for him. He sat down on the bed in front of her and put up one foot. She grabbed the boot and began to pull. It came off, and she dropped it with a clunk. He raised his other leg and put it in front of her.
“They claim this angel ca
me back to bring a special book.”
Now it was Joshua who was preoccupied. He was thinking about furs. The mountain men would be coming in from the West in the next month as spring began to break. Maybe this time he ought to take the furs all the way to New York City himself instead of selling them off in Cincinnati to the buyer there. A day or two before, he had seen a paper from Boston. In it were advertisements for women’s coats, men’s beaverskin hats. The prices had shocked him. It was clear someone was making a great deal of money on the furs, and it wasn’t Joshua Steed. But maybe that could be corrected.
He looked up absently. “What?”
“The missionaries. They said they have a special book. They said an angel came and told some man about some gold plates buried in a hill.” Jessie let his other boot drop to the floor. “Sounds pretty farfetched to me.”
Joshua had been about to lower his other leg. It stopped in midair. “What did you say?” he said sharply.
Jessica was suddenly stammering. “I...I was just talking on, Joshua. I’m sorry.”
He grabbed her hand. “What did you say? About gold plates?”
“It was nothin’, Joshua. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“Tell me!” he cried. “What about gold plates?”
She cowered back, not sure what she had done to trigger this. “The missionaries, they were talking about them. They had a book. I saw it. One of them held it up. They said it was translated from these gold plates by some man in New York. An angel supposedly gave them to him.”
She paused, glancing quickly at Joshua’s face. There was a strange look of excitement mingled with anger, maybe even disgust. “I didn’t believe it, Joshua,” she added quickly. “Not any of it.”
“Joseph Smith.”
It startled Jessie. “What?”
“Was the man’s name Joseph Smith? The one who got the plates?”
“I...I think so.” She felt a rush of relief that this sudden intensity was not directed at her. “Yes, I think you’re right. I think they did call him Smith.”
“Where were these men from?”
“I don’t remember if I heard.”
His grip on her hand tightened like a vise. “Think, Jessie! Were they from New York?”
Her eyes narrowed as she thought back on what she had heard. “Yes, I think so. At least they talked about things that happened in New York. And they sounded like they was from back East.”
“Where are these men?”
She hesitated. “Well, they were down by the courthouse.”
“No, I mean where can I find them?”
“I don’t know. I heard a lady say afterwards that they’re staying out in Kaw Township, but two of them have opened a tailor shop here in town so’s they can support themselves.”
Joshua grabbed his boots. “That must be that new shop down by the mercantile store.” He stuffed one foot into a boot and began to pull hard.
“You’re goin’ there now?” Jessica asked in surprise. “It’s after nine o’clock.”
“Joseph Smith used to work for my family in Palmyra. If these men know Joseph, they may also know my family. I’m goin’ now.”
He pulled his other boot on, strode out of the bedroom, and grabbed his coat. In a moment he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him.
Jessica didn’t move. The flickering light of the lamp reflected in her eyes, now wide and filled with hurt. After several moments, she stood slowly, blew out the lamp, and crawled into bed. But for a long time she lay there, staring into the darkness.
“Yes,” she finally said, speaking to the ceiling, “and if they know about your family, they may also know about your precious Lydia.”
It was only fifteen minutes later that Joshua returned. He slipped into the bedroom without lighting a lamp and undressed quietly.
“Did you find them?”
“No. The storekeeper next door thought they were out in Kaw Township. Either that or back across the line in Indian Territory. They don’t stay in town every night.”
“Oh.” She tried to keep the relief out of her voice.
“I’ll try again in a day or two.”
Of course! But she did not answer him, and in a minute he slipped into bed beside her, turning his back to her. Five minutes later he was snoring softly.
In the northeastern corner of what would eventually become the state of Ohio lay an area known as the Western Reserve, so called because when the various colonies relinquished claims on their western lands, Connecticut compromised. They gave up all but a parcel in what would become Ohio, holding that reserve, which they then sold to a group of investors. One of them, General Moses Cleaveland, was sent to survey the land. Seven years later, the same year that Ohio was made the seventeenth state of the Union, Thomas Jefferson negotiated another of history’s great land acquisitions, the Louisiana Purchase. Now the Mississippi River belonged to the United States, and suddenly Ohio had water access to the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean. By 1825, the year the Erie Canal was finished, work on the Ohio Canal was begun. When completed to the Ohio River, it opened up an extensive system of internal waterways. One could ship goods or travel by water from New York City to New Orleans or from the East Coast to Independence, Missouri, halfway across the continent. Ohio lay at the center of that vast network.
When first purchased, Ohio was one massive forest of trees—oak, maple, black walnut, locust, wild cherry, sycamores, and many more—with a thousand varieties of bushes and undergrowth that went with them. Settlers quickly learned to “head for the tall timber” as they discovered that the highest trees, the nut-bearing trees such as oak or beech, marked the best soil. Two years after that initial survey by Cleaveland, Judge Turhand Kirtland, one of the land agents for the Connecticut Land Company, came to Geauga County, Ohio, and surveyed two of the townships. The first family moved in and built a log cabin in 1811. Others quickly followed. By 1818 Judge Kirtland was selling some of his land for two and three dollars per acre, a handsome profit on land that had been purchased from Connecticut for about twenty-five or thirty cents an acre.
At first, agriculture was the primary occupation of Kirtland’s residents. But the village was situated on the east branch of the Chagrin River, a meandering stream with several smaller tributaries. In an area near the river, known as Kirtland Flats, various mills and small factories began to develop. A sawmill was constructed in 1819. A year later a gristmill was added. There was a tannery, and an ashery which took wood ashes and turned them into the potash used in making soap. Grandison Newell started a factory to manufacture chairs, stands, beds, tables, candle boxes, and other wooden items.
In 1823 Sidney Gilbert and his partner, Newel K. Whitney, built a store near the riverbank and near the junction of the Chardon and Painesville roads. A brick kiln was begun nearby. In 1827 Peter French, who owned most of the land in the flats, built the first brick building, a two-story hotel across the street from the Whitney store. Kirtland had become a full-fledged village and was rapidly becoming an important location in northern Ohio.
It was to the Gilbert and Whitney store that Carlton Rogers came on the afternoon of February first, 1831. Carl, as all but his mother called him, was the oldest son of Hezekiah Rogers, owner and manager of Kirtland’s largest and most prosperous livery stable. At twenty-two, he looked younger than his years. That was largely due to his red hair and the generous sprinkling of freckles that came with it. His skin was fair and prone to sunburn whether it was midwinter or the dead of summer. But he had a ready smile and a pleasant disposition, and Newel K. Whitney, the store’s proprietor, was always pleased to see him come in the store.
“Good afternoon, Carl.”
“Afternoon, Mr. Whitney.”
“What can we do for you today?”
Carl removed his gloves and pulled a long paper from his trousers pocket. “I’ve got a whole list here.”
The storekeeper took the paper, reached behind the counter, and pulled out a set of reading glass
es. He perched them on the end of his nose and scanned the list. “Hmm. Looks like your pa is going to start that new carriage shed he’s been talking about.”
“Yep. Spring’s coming. He’d like to get started on it.”
“All right. Make yourself comfortable there by the stove. This will take a few minutes.”
Five minutes later Carl looked up as Whitney brought a large coil of hemp rope and dropped it on the growing pile he was making in the center of the store’s main room. “Hope you brought something to carry all this stuff in.”
“I’ve got the wagon.”
Whitney started to turn, then turned back. He lifted the glasses from off his nose and peered out of the window that was behind Carl.
Carl turned to see what had caught his attention. A horsedrawn sleigh had pulled up. There were four people in it, bundled up heavily in blankets and robes. The two men in front had scarves covering the lower part of their faces, and so it was difficult to tell who they were. The man in the back, the one closest to them, jumped down lightly, then turned to the person who had been sitting next to him. Carl could see now that it was a woman. Her face was red and she looked very cold.
“That someone you know?” Whitney asked.
Carl shook his head. “Ain’t never seen him before.”
“Hmm. Must be strangers in town.”
The man outside turned, looked up at the sign on the storefront above the porch, then bounded up the steps. The bell on the door tinkled as he opened it, then shut it again firmly. He was a tall man, a good six feet. As he unwound the scarf from around his neck and face, he looked at the two people watching him. Carl noted that his hair was light, his complexion fair, and that his eyes were a startling blue.
The man nodded and smiled briefly at Carl, but then his gaze fixed on Newel Whitney. In three steps he strode across the room, extending his hand. “Newel K. Whitney, thou art the man.”
It was as if he had hit Whitney with a stone. Newel stared at the newcomer; then, bewildered, took the proffered hand. “Sir, you have the advantage of me. I could not call you by name as you have me.”
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